


A Chatelaine in her tower

by middlemarch



Category: Ballerina | Leap! (2016)
Genre: F/M, Gift Giving, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, hunger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 08:47:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12055437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: He should have noticed sooner.





	A Chatelaine in her tower

Louis cursed himself as he climbed the stairs. He paused after the second flight, setting the heavy basket down on the spotless landing, and took a deep breath; all he smelled was the faint soapiness of the polished floor wax and the fresh fragrance of the baguette that he tucked into the basket last. There was no mustiness, no scent of old, sun-warmed dust or the slow, subtle decay of whatever items had been stored in the attic and he understood that meant Odette had dealt with what she had found and put it all to rights. At least Félicie would have helped before she ran off to her classes, her ribbons properly tied now, her auburn hair secured in a netted bun—she would have helped as much as Odette let her, which he knew was every day less so that the young ballerina could spend her energies on her lessons, her practice, the essential chatter among the girls that made the corps work as one and the prima stand apart.

He rapped lightly on the door, the basket beside his feet. He heard Odette moving in the room, the staccato tap of her stick, and then the creak of the unoiled hinges as she opened the door and faced him.

“Bonjour,” she said, taking in the slight flush on his cheeks, his parted lips, the loaf of bread announcing itself like a staked spear. She offered nothing. He must ask before he might give.

“Bonjour, Odette. May I come in?” She paused before she nodded and stepped aside so he could walk in. She had not smiled and he wished she would.

“I hope this is not an imposition,” he began.

“That depends on what you intend, no?” she replied evenly. 

“I’ve brought you something, as you can see,” he said, unable to keep from gesturing at the basket. She lifted an eyebrow, blew out her breath softly.

“I don’t need charity, I don’t need your pity,” she said, her voice clipped, with none of the lovely richness of the night when he had kissed her once again, finally again. None of the amusement or pleasure of the days that followed, when they spoke of Félicie’s classes, the other students, the long-sought volume she had from the bookseller’s stall, the shape of the clouds over Notre-Dame.

“I don’t pity you, Odette. I love you. I’m in love with you,” he exclaimed, all in a rush as if he were a rude youth, younger and stupider than Félicie’s Victor, than he had ever sounded talking to any other woman.

“I’m in love with you,” he repeated, more slowly, so there could be no mistake. He watched her as she bit her lip and shifted on her feet. She gripped her stick tighter and he felt the sudden urge to take a hold of her slender waist, to steady her and draw her closer. It would be the ruin of everything; he resisted and instead, spoke again.

“You’re not eating enough. I can see it in your face,” he said. He hadn’t looked at her for such a long time and then he had and wondered at why he had ever stopped. And then he had noticed, though she smiled more, the shadows beneath her eyes were darker and her cheekbones more pronounced.

“You needn’t look at me if it is too bad. If I’ve become too ugly,” she said. She gazed over his shoulder, at some distant point, and he knew it was only pride that kept her from dropping her eyes, from turning her face away. He let himself act as he wanted to, walked the few steps and took her in his arms.

“You’re beautiful, _ma caille_ , I cannot stop looking at you—and then I saw, I saw what you are doing,” he said softly. She blinked at him with those blue eyes of hers that were like the sky, always the same, always changing. “You are giving your meals to Félicie, a larger share every day, you are hardly eating anything at all. You are doing extra work to buy her what she needs. Please, Odette, please let me help.”

“Louis,” she said, then surprised him by laying her head against his chest. It was some sort of agreement, all the argument gone out of her. When he glanced down, he saw her shining dark hair knotted in a bun, the tired slope of her shoulders. He held her more tightly, feeling how slim she had become; the bones of her ribcage just there under his hand, her spine like an empress’s diadem. He wanted to kiss her but he wanted to feed her first and see if it brought back the color into her cheeks.

“Let me get you a glass of wine and some bread. Or there are some sweet biscuits,” he said, leading her to the chair closest and settling her there. He had the wine in a glass and a plate for the baguette, a knife to cut thick slices arranged in a few minutes. She had even less than he had imagined in the cupboard but he managed to stop himself from growling about it while Odette ate what he had put in front of her, sipping at the wine.

“I thought I was so clever, finding these rooms for you, allowing Félicie to take all the classes the others do, but I am not such a clever man. Those stairs would seem to take you to St. Peter and each one polished! Your leg, it must,” he said. He made sure to keep any real bitterness from his voice, lest she have to comfort him.

“It is what it is. Félicie has somewhere warm to sleep and I have work,” she replied.

“You ought to have better, to be cared for better,” he insisted.

“She is a child still, Félicie, she needs to study and dance, not to worry, not to waste her talents in drudgery,” Odette said.

“You are right about Félicie, though I suspect she wouldn’t agree if she heard you. I didn’t mean she should do more for you, you must know that. I mean I should, if you would only let me.” He saw her weighing the words. He hoped he would not have to argue with her, but that if he did, he might win. He hoped she would believe him.

“It would please you? To…care for me?” she asked.

“Yes.” It was the only thing to say. It was incontrovertible, any modification was unnecessary.

“I don’t know what to say. I thought I would, but I find I don’t,” she said. Now she sounded young, uncertain, without any of the bravado she had had when she first arrived in Paris, when you could hear le Midi in every syllable, smell the hint of rosemary and cypress in her linen, her newly washed hair. He leaned over and took her hand in his. 

“You could try ‘yes.’ Yes, you will allow me to care for you. Yes, you believe I love you. Yes,” he paused, took a breath to brace himself, “you love me. Yes, you will be my wife.”

He should have brought flowers, even if they were not her favorites, they would have been welcome now that he found himself proposing marriage with a wicker basket full of Camembert and quince preserves, not a jewel in sight. Except, that was not quite right, for when Odette lifted her eyes to him, he saw they were star sapphires, and the tear on her cheek a diamond.

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a poem by Paul Verlaine. I believe you can see what I think of Louis's big gesture of getting Odette a place to stay but I don't like to linger in the angst. _Ma caille_ is a French endearment that means "my quail."


End file.
